


weren't we supposed to be watching a movie?

by almostafantasia



Series: Clexa Halloween Week [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Clexa Halloween Week, Day 1, F/F, Smut, horror movies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 14:23:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12509404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostafantasia/pseuds/almostafantasia
Summary: When Clarke suggests that they watch a horror movie, Lexa doesn’t want to admit that she’s scared of them. Thankfully she’s got a couple of tricks up her sleeve to distract Clarke before she can press play.aka an excuse for me to write smut with a very tenuous link to halloween





	weren't we supposed to be watching a movie?

“We’re supposed to be watching a movie.”

Lexa hums incoherently in response, and then moves her lips to the exposed pillar of Clarke’s neck. The skin is hot beneath her touch, flushed a pretty pink from their making out, and Lexa drags her tongue across the flesh, tracing a path between two freckles that decorate the creamy skin. Clarke lets out a soft hiss as Lexa’s mouth finds the flutter of Clarke’s pulse in her neck, and Lexa closes her teeth around Clarke’s skin, not hard enough to leave a mark but enough for Clarke to feel it and elicit a low whimper.

“Lexa,” Clarke gasps. “Movie.”

Clarke’s voice is significantly huskier than the last time she spoke. That was Lexa, that’s something that _she_ did, and the sense of pride that surges through Lexa’s body with that knowledge only brings with it a thirst for more, a need to slowly dismantle each one of Clarke’s inhibitions until the blonde is nothing more than a writhing mess, a soft putty for Lexa’s hands to mould at her own whim.

Dropping her palms to Clarke’s denim-clad butt, Lexa gives the cheeks a squeeze and encourages Clarke to rock her pelvis over Lexa’s own hips, then smiles suggestively at the girl in her lap as she says, “Or we could just…”

For a moment, Lexa thinks that she’s triumphed. Clarke’s eyes are hazy, her pupils dark with want, and her chest heaves with each lurching breath.

But somehow, Clarke has within her the willpower to say no to what Lexa is offering her.

“We can do that later,” Clarke says, reluctantly extracting herself from Lexa’s arms. “Come on, let’s watch.”

Clarke reaches for the television remote that fell to the floor somewhere between Clarke climbing into Lexa’s lap and Lexa tugging Clarke’s shirt up and over her head, then points it towards the screen in the corner as she scrolls through the selection to find the right movie.

“What if I don’t like horror movies?”

Looking across at Lexa, Clarke arches an eyebrow, then sniggers under her breath as she says, “Good one.”

“I’m serious.”

Clarke pauses, the television remote still held in her outstretched hand. She stares at Lexa in disbelief, waiting for the moment where Lexa cracks and tells her that it’s just a joke, but when that moment doesn’t come, Clarke’s expression morphs from one of confusion to one of wide-eyed surprise.

“You … _you_ don’t like horror movies?”

Lexa shrugs indifferently, then answers, “Not really.”

“But you’re … you’re …” Clarke stammers, searching for the right words.

“I’m what?” Lexa asks in amusement, interested to see what Clarke’s reaction will be to this new piece of information that Lexa has decided to share with her.

“You always seem so unaffected by everything,” Clarke explains. “And now you’re telling me that Miss “ _love is weakness_ ” is scared of watching a horror movie.”

“I’m not _scared_ ,” says Lexa. “I just don’t like them.”

“Yeah right.”

“They’re full of gimmicky jump scares, the plots are non-existent, and the characters are predictable and under-developed,” elaborates Lexa.

“Nerd,” says Clarke, poking Lexa’s shoulder with one of her fingers. “It’s just a movie.”

Lexa gently extracts the television remote from Clarke’s fingers, placing it on the coffee table out of Clarke’s reach, and then dips her other hand down to palm at Clarke’s butt through her jeans as she lowers her voice and says, “Then why waste our time watching ‘just a movie’ when there are so many better things we could be doing?”

Clarke’s breath catches in her throat and her eyes darken. Much to Lexa’s delight, Clarke seems to have forgotten about the movie in favour of other activities.

With one of her hands on the arm of the couch beside Lexa’s head to support her weight, Clarke leans down until her face almost meets Lexa’s, Clarke replies throatily, “You make a compelling argument.”

Lexa tangles one hand in Clarke’s hair, cupping the back of her head as she draws Clarke’s lips down to touch her own. Their mouths meet in an urgent kiss, tongues swiping messily against each other. Feeling bold, Lexa’s hand traces a burning path up Clarke’s spine, ghosting over the claps of her bra in a silent promise of things to come.

Pulling away just enough to speak, Clarke mumbles, “I know that you’re only trying to distract me so that we don’t have to watch the movie.”

“Are you complaining?” Lexa asks, unsnapping Clarke’s bra and flinging it off to the side as her other hand dips down and cups Clarke’s centre through the denim of her jeans.

“God, no,” Clarke gasps breathily, rocking her hips into Lexa’s fingers, seeking more pressure than the teasing touches Lexa is willing to give her. “I want you so much.”

Lexa moves both hands to Clarke’s hips and pretends to push Clarke off her as she looks around the room with a frown on her face and says, “Weren’t we about to watch a movie?”

Clarke slaps Lexa’s arm lightly, rolling her eyes in her impatience.

“Don’t be an ass.”

Lexa thinks about teasing Clarke for a little while longer, but as appealing as that might be, so is having Clarke riding her fingers, and hearing the sounds that Clarke makes when she’s approaching an orgasm, and watching Clarke fall apart in her lap, and Lexa just can’t find within her the patience to wait for any of those things when the power to have them right now is in her hands.

Literally.

Lexa squeezes Clarke’s hips once, then drops her hands to the front of Clarke’s jeans, where she flicks open the button with expert fingers and then makes to push the obstructive material down Clarke’s legs. They have to adjust their positions a little bit to make it work, but Clarke is more than eager enough to help Lexa remove the garment, tossing it aside with as little care as Lexa proffered Clarke’s bra when she removed that barely a minute ago.

With Clarke’s jeans now gone, Lexa’s hands rest on Clarke’s upper thighs, where the skin is satiny smooth and ablaze with the heat of the moment, not daring to dip inwards yet as she asks, “Can I touch you?”

Clarke rolls her eyes so hard that it probably changes the direction of the wind, then reaches for one of Lexa’s hands, clasping her fingers around Lexa’s slim wrist and guiding towards her lace-clad centre.

“You don’t have to ask.”

Lexa applies the barest amount of pressure through the material of Clarke’s underwear, ignoring the fingers wrapped around her wrist that try to coax a more definite kind of movement out of her. Lexa is content to keep the touch light, reminding Clarke that she is there without applying the regularity or the definition of movement that will start to give Clarke what she desperately needs.

“Lexa,” whines Clarke.

Lexa doesn’t comply immediately. Instead, she sends one hand up to the back of Clarke’s neck and pulls her mouth down for a kiss. It’s open-mouthed and a little sloppy, but it’s still perfect for the moment. Perfect, because it distracts Clarke enough for Lexa to be able to reposition her hand and for it to elicit a gasp of surprise when her fingers dip beneath lace and into the wetness that awaits beneath.

“Wow.”

Lexa is very rarely a talker in bed. Even her own orgasms are usually silent in their intensity, and she often finds herself far too embarrassed to attempt any kind of dirty talk when getting Clarke off, particularly because she feels inadequate compared to Clarke, who is so good at being vocal when the roles are reversed. But there comes around the odd occasion, once in a blue moon, where Lexa’s confidence spikes and she finds the words to reduce Clarke to even more of a mess.

The rarity of such an occasion just makes the effect on Clarke even more devastating.

“Such a good girl,” she tells Clarke, as her fingers push through folds that are dizzyingly wet. “You’re soaked, and all for me.”

Clarke’s reaction is predictable and instant. Lexa barely even has to touch Clarke because her words are enough to wickedly tease. Clarke’s breath is laboured, her eyelids heavy with lust, and the buck of her hips, seeking contact that Lexa doesn’t want to give her just yet, is messy and desperate.

It creates a wonderful circle – the more Lexa teases, the more desperate Clarke gets for Lexa to touch her properly, and the more desperate Clarke gets, the more Lexa wants to just keep teasing.

“Lexa, _please_.”

Lexa can’t resist, not when Clarke looks so beautiful when she’s this needy. Moving her free hand to cup a flushed breast, where the stiff peak of a nipple brushes against the soft skin of Lexa’s palm in a way that has Clarke gasping, Lexa uses her other hand to start giving Clarke a bit more pressure. Her fingers are soaked and she rubs slippery circles around Clarke’s clit, dipping lower every few rotations to tease between Clarke’s folds nearer to her opening.

“Do you want…?” Lexa starts to ask.

“Yes,” Clarke answers, before Lexa can even finish getting the question out. “Give me everything.”

It’s so hard for Lexa to deny Clarke anything, not when she’s inviting her over for an evening of watching movies from Lexa’s least favourite genre, but _especially_ not when she looks like this – mostly naked, eyes closed, hair ruffled, and her sticky arousal dripping all over Lexa’s fingers. So Lexa doesn’t deny her, she slides her fingers lower and slips one inside her girlfriend.

This position, Clarke sitting in Lexa’s lap, makes it very easy for Clarke to take exactly what she needs, and Lexa is grateful for it because her own brain has gone into overdrive. She’s not even the one being touched, not yet, but she may as well be because she gets lost in her surroundings, overwhelmed by how good Clarke feels above, by how much she is aching between her own legs, and she can do very little more than keep her fingers where Clarke needs them and let her do the work.

Clarke moves her hips, rocking up and down on Lexa’s fingers rhythmically. Lexa can only try to hold on, squeezing Clarke’s breast with her other hand and curling her fingers every time they plunge deep inside Clarke’s dripping centre.

Fucking Clarke is like riding a rollercoaster without any seat restraints. It’s the single most exhilarating thing in the world, terrifying in its dizziness, but it gets Lexa’s blood pumping, gets her adrenaline surging through her body like nothing else.

There’s something surging through Clarke’s body too. Lexa can feel the first ripples of it around her fingers. Clarke’s breath gets shallower, her body becomes more rigid, her movements become more frantic, and all Lexa can do is try to remain present for it all. She keeps the movements of her fingers consistent, thrusting when Clarke can’t anymore, curling them so that the pads of her fingertips reach that spot deep inside Clarke that drives her wild, pushing past the ache that starts in her wrist because this is about more than Lexa’s pain. It’s about making this feel good for Clarke.

And then, with a beautiful cry that echoes through the dark living room, Clarke crumbles.

Lexa holds Clarke tight through it, keeping her fingers steady and pressing her lips to the warm skin of Clarke’s shoulder. And, because Lexa is weak and sappy and terribly gay, she whispers words of comfort into Clarke’s ear, telling her how beautiful she is and how much she loves her and other such sweet words of adoration.

Clarke is beautiful when she comes. Well, she’s _always_ beautiful, in Lexa’s slightly biased opinion, but especially in times like this one. Her mouth is open, her eyes squeezed shut, and she lets out these soft little mewls of pleasure as the tremors ripple through her body. She shakes in Lexa’s arms, clenching around the two fingers that are still buried inside her, letting the pleasure take over her body.

All too soon, Clarke’s orgasm ends.

She collapses on top of Lexa, sweaty but sated, and nuzzles her face into the crook of Lexa’s neck, her leg draped over Lexa’s hip and her hand tangled in Lexa’s hair.

“You’re in so much trouble when I get my breath back,” Clarke mumbles into Lexa’s jaw.

Lexa knows that it’s supposed to be a threat, but with promises like that, she can’t really do anything but clench her thighs together and grin into Clarke’s shoulder at the prospect of what is to come.


End file.
